Peaches

Peaches is tall and slender, with a pile of long reddish-blonde hair, has lovely tits and an open mind. She’s quite old, mid-fifties really, or older; she’s mature, realistic, and easy company. Ten years younger than me. She loves to puff. Enjoys sex. One night we’d finished the rock, it was early, and Peaches undressed and leaned over me to suck me off. I tipped over on my side to sniff her hip and watch her mouth slide up and down. I pulled up my smooth sack [I’ve been pruning the hedges] to let her teabag the whole apparatus. “Mmmm,” she throat-growled, roughly. “Put your finger in me baby,” she insisted, mouthing me, as I stroked her open, pressing my fingertip right up inside her slippery mystery. “Oh, yes, yessss baby,” she tightened and growled, “put two in,” pulling herself onto my probing fingers, enveloping them in the lips and muscles of her steaming vagina.

My fingers probed and spread Peaches open. As instructed, I pressed into and through the slow rocking of her hips, caressing her open, probing deeply inside this lady, over and behind her uterus, where my fingers felt something “not pussy,” right there at my fingertips, in Peaches’ pussy, like a label, or a candy wrapper, definitely not an IUD. I’m not kidding, I first thought it was a tag! I paused, breathless, asked close to her ear, “What’s this inside you Peaches? What is it?” and proceeded awkwardly and without the assistance of an opposable thumb to slide the little knotted plastic package with a fifty rock of crack, right out of her wet, fragrant labia.

I reached over and dropped the package onto the nightstand, pulling on my reading glasses to look closer. Peaches leaned in. Still squinting, but giving way to a smile, I grabbed the scissors out of the drawer and cut the knot off the wrapper of our magic pussy-rock; we smoked it, right there without dressing or even getting up off the bed, passing Peaches the stem with my fingers still smelling like her tangy stash. Any nod toward who was turning on whom, which bitch of us was getting the other bitch high would have been nakedly awkward.

I don’t mind that she tried to steal my cocaine, because she put it in her cooze where I could fish it out.

The rock tasted exactly like the crack we’d bought earlier in the day, and just like what we’d bought from her son the previous day, and this “pussy bag” of crack was either stolen from me and hidden, or maybe a commission she earned for buying it for us. Her son didn’t stash the crack in her gash, if you follow me. It became clear something shady had happened, and the mood changed a bit, but we immediately smoked our rock and felt much better. Peaches got me off twice that night, which, with the one time earlier, in the morning when she mouthed me to a reclining and relaxed orgasm after we’d eaten an early brunch, made Peaches the new one-day record holder for successfully sucking me off. Three times in one day with the same chick. I had now officially turned into an ape, wafting sweat, traces of God-knows-what hormones, and cocaine vapor.

Since my surgeon took my prostate, my orgasms are blessedly both frequent and dry.

Peaches is a treasure. She’s almost 6 feet tall, keeps her weight around 150. She’s a pervert deep down, has seen a lot of shit— some good, some bad— and isn’t easily offended. She spent 10 years in federal prison. She knows what guys like. Lies all day long. Casually clean. She is often accompanied by a small dog. She knows now my orgasms are easy to accommodate; since my surgeon took my prostate, my orgasms are blessedly both frequent and dry. Peaches forgets, and I pose as if I’m about to hurl an epic cum eruption all over her glottal dangler, but then nothing but bucking, laughter, burrowing hugs, and flushed and sweaty skin. She laughs too, when she remembers. It doesn’t have to suck to be a provider. I don’t mind that she tried to steal my cocaine, because she put it in her cooze where I could find it. I don’t know if that was the desired outcome or not. She kind of orchestrated it, when she insisted I push my fingers inside her. Crack hos lie always, Always, ALWAYS! They can’t help it, don’t even know they’re lying, nor why.